Part two of “What Bloggers Do” is over at the SB with Mottram and Shanoff kicking in, as well. Tipsters, ripsters, and zipsters: it’s the new tripartite catchphrase.

Remember one thing. If we learned anything from all of this, it is that angry words only hurt. Angry dancing, though, heals us all.

Shantih to you all.

We don’t know who that guy is, but he peed on the sliding glass door at our party, and we had to kick him out. He drank the last Pearl Beer out of the fridge and then tried to stick his hand down your girlfriend’s pants. He just got out, but not of the army, if you know what I mean. He told those guys at Lowe’s they could keep their fucking job, dude. He went to the Bullet Boys concert and it was awesome, especially the part where he got a blowjob in a port-o-let. His credit sucks. He wants you to co-sign a car loan, and you know he’s good for it because you bought weed from him and he gave you the dankest of the dank in return.

He’s that guy, and he wishes you a happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers!

Nick Saban: Hey, Urb.

Urban Meyer: Yeah, Nick.

Nick: Hungry?

Urban: For victory.

(They laugh heartily and give each other the hand-to-elbow Beastmaster gladiator handshake.)

Nick: No, really. Want a snack?

Urban: Sure, Nick. That’s nice of you.

Nick: No problem. Just check in that basket down there.

Urban: Okay, whatcha got in there—

(more…)

Colt, you think you lost money? Au contraire. You calculate your loss as $1,378,500 over three years, amounting to a little under 500K a year to live in Hawaii–and you still got signed to the NFL afterwards. That. Is. Nothing.

Oh, poor you, Colt.

I read the stories: you learned Samoan, did funky shit with your hair. (more…)

Ever heard of Jeremiah Wright? He’s the Muslim preacher who taught Obama about raising the capital gains tax to 75% in order to fund gay weddings and DESTROY THIS COUNTRY. He hates America, too.

He has many stupid things to say, and this includes interesting facts about marching bands, too! Watch his insightful take on marching bands as excerpted by the Colbert Report. White ones do it like this NAH DINK NAH DINK NAH! Black ones be like this OOM CHA CHA BOOM CHA CHA BOOM!

Never mind that FAMU’s every bit as precise as a major standard “European” style marching band, and that their practice sessions are less band rehearsals than football drills. They’re black, so they don’t worry about your whiteass precision. Because this all looks so, so sloppily done: (more…)

Buzz Bissinger just ripped on bloggers, including Will Leitch, who had to sit there and take it because, once angered, no amount of reason would get through to the guy who wrote Friday Night Lights.

Bissinger has no idea what blogs are about, though he may claim to. So in short, for the record, we thought we might state for the record a.) who a blogger might be, and b.) what blogging does. Ready? We’ll keep this short.(For an epic poem or Supreme Court ruling–ed.)

A. Who a Blogger Might Be, or in this case, me.

My desk: taste the glamour.

DURR-HURR! GUY WHO LIVES IN MOM’S BASEMENT DURR!!! Untrue. We know of only one one blogger who lives in Mom’s basement, and that makes him just like Mike Lupica, doesn’t it? (Mom! Meatloaf and the Mets game on in five! MOM!) The bloggers we know best do the following;

1. Will Leitch. Full-time writer. Lots of people read him. Not mom’s basement on the address.

2. Matt Ufford. Ditto, and ditto. Has roommates, I think, but still. Oh, and COMMANDED A FUCKING TANK UNIT IN IRAQ. Buzz Bissinger went to Phillips Academy, a very dangerous place in its own right. They ride English saddles there! There’s not even a horn on it for stability!

3. Big Daddy Drew. Likewise, successful before becoming a sports blogger, and would be even if the medium didn’t come around.

4. The guys from Fire Joe Morgan. No idea what these men do, because they cover American Cricket, and I therefore don’t obsess enough about them to follow up. Fortunately, neither do mainstream journos, none of whom have inquired into blogger’s backgrounds before accusing them of living in Mom’s basement. I assume, judging from the brawny machinations of their writing, that they could presumably do other jobs quite successfully without going on the maternal dole.

5. Lawyers. Most post under pseudonyms, but these people make up the rank and file of the blogging world. Why? Because they are bored to tears by their jobs despite being creative, articulate, argumentative, and passionate people. Give a dam an outlet, and it’ll crack mountains into silt. That’s what lawyers are to the blogosphere. None of them live with their mothers, and many make more than the sportswriters who accuse them of living–yes–with Mom.

6. Me. Yep, I’ll go there. (more…)

In the wake of the NFL draft, we thought we’d do our own draft-themed show, albeit with a twist: extending the draft not only to college, but to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. (A store now closing forever, something we’d weep over if we ever bought single item at the place. Wait: garbage can, 2002.)

Our four questions for the evening are as follows:

1. Name the player for your team who, once “drafted” by your team, never really panned out. As a Florida fan, our list of signees who came and never blossomed into even the measliest of roses is long and distinguished. However, the pinnacle of disappointment came in a pair of Parade All-Americans destroyed slowly by the “performs best when entering with little talent or ego” Spurrier system: Bobby Sabelhaus and Tim Olmstead, the next Great Distributors in the Fun ‘n Gun who both bombed out of the program before doing so much as throwing a single wobbly fade to the corner.

Olmstead was merely immature, blowing off classes and refusing to learn the playbook before transferring to Vandy where he sat on the bench behind Greg Zolman. (Read that again. If that doesn’t sink in, well, read it again.) Poor Bobby Sabelhaus suffered a worse fate: he got depressed, got bipolar, and then got gone, transferring to West Virginia, and then finally to San Jose State. Just thinking about them makes us emo boy weepy sad.

2. Name the most overrated draft pick from your own school. Gerard “Big Money” Warren. What? The big fat guy who did nothing? Really? Are you interested in drafting my uncle, perhaps? He won’t even ask for a signing bonus, sir and sirrahs. Gerard Warren, on the other hand, will cost you the third pick in the first round of the 2001 draft and ultimately end up playing for the Raiders. (Butch Davis, draft genius, your fingerprints are all over this one.)

He does look intimidating riding off on an injury cart, though.

3. You get to draft a quality you lack into your life. Whatever: more patience, a horn in the middle of your forehead, or even the answer most of you will undoubtedly give, the all-consuming desire to have your huge, pavement dragging dick reduced to a more manageable size. Just answer the question and the puppy doesn’t get harmed.

For the record, we’d draft abs. Never had ‘em, never will. It would be nice to flaunt them for a month, and then bury then under a solid layer of merrily-added beer fat.

4. Draft something foreign into these United States of ours. We want Australia. The whole thing, fangs and all. Failing a continental transfer, we’ll just take its assortment of fanged/poisonous animals, since Florida seems too safe to us these days: no coke wars, no one slaughtering German tourists in Miami for sport, years since a decent hurricane.

Talk to you tonight, which you may do by clicking here or by simply hitting play on the Now Live Widget in the sidebar.

Them’s the numbers for the spring games, compiled by the guys at the Big Red Network who, understandably, are quite proud of the massive attendance for Pelini’s first spring outing. Insert jokes about “places with nothing to do” leading the list, though we’re wondering about Iowa State being so low on the list: shouldn’t more people have attended just to huddle for warmth? Chizik-nickels don’t buy as much kerosene as they used to, we guess.

[/basking in glorious spring sunshine]

Connecticut is extremely precise with their degrees of badness in the criminal code. Blame that on having daffy Yale law so close by–how else does one get “sixth-degree larceny,” a crime that seems just a hair off from “accepting a gift in an awkward fashion?” Whatever the hell “sixth-degree larceny” is, Connecticut cornerback Joshua Massey caught a case of it for taking exactly $31.34 worth of goods from the UConn co-op. We’re betting it was blades for his nine-bladed razor, the Gillette Agent Orange (”Deforesting Your Face Nine Lethal Goddamn Blades at a Time.”)

The Gillette Agent Orange: It’s Like Deforestation For Your Face.

One point for UConn, whose measly total doesn’t bring them close to the big board.

Perpetually fun Iowa tacks on a point for underage possession, and we don’t mean the Roger Clemens type of underage possession. Defensive tackle Cody Hundertmark broke through the guard of local criminal code and got his hands on some booze, but was charged with holding and fined with fifteen yards and an underage charge. One point for Iowa, though the good news is that they did not lose a player in the incident.

And finally…100 parking tickets for Sam Baker during his time at USC. As someone who parked their car everywhere on the Florida campus, up to and including a primo spot in the aisle of the Latin American History section of Library West, and kept himself warm on cold winter nights by burning piles of parking tickets, we only have this word: hero.